In the evening we reached Palestrina, and stopped before the inn in the market-place, as tired and dusty as might be.  The woman went one way, and the priest the other, and I was left alone.  I soon found the fat old host, and engaged a room for the night.  He was talkative and curious, and sat by my side when he had prepared my supper in the dingy dining-room downstairs.  I felt quite sure that he would be able to tell me what I wanted, or at least to give me a hint from hearsay.  But he at once began to talk of last year, and how much better his business had been then than it was now, as country landlords invariably do.

It was to no purpose that I questioned him about the people that had passed during the fortnight, the month, the two months back; it was clear that no one of the importance of my friends had been heard of.  At last I was tired, and he lit a wax candle, which he would carefully charge in the bill afterwards, at double its natural price, and he showed me the way to my room.  It was a very decent little room, with white curtains and a good bed and a table,—­everything I could desire.  A storm had come up since I had been at my supper, and it seemed a comfortable thing to go to bed, although I was disappointed at having got no news.

But when I had blown out my candle, determining to expostulate with the host in the morning if he attempted to make me pay for a whole one, I lay thinking of what I should do; and, turning on my side, I observed that a narrow crack of the door admitted rays of light into the darkness of my chamber.  Now I am very sensitive to draughts and inclined to take cold, and the idea that there was a door open troubled me, so that at last I made up my mind to get up and close it.  As I rose to my feet, I perceived that it was not the door by which I had entered; and so, before shutting it, I called out, supposing there might be someone in the next room.

“Excuse me,” I said, loudly, “I will shut this door.”  But there was no reply.

Curiosity is perhaps a vice, but it is a natural one.  Instead of pulling the door to its place, I pushed it a little, knocking with my knuckles at the same time.  But as no one answered, I pushed it further, and put in my head.  It was a disagreeable thing I saw.

The room was like mine in every way, save that the bed was moved to the middle of the open space, and there were two candles on two tables.  On the bed lay a dead man.  I felt what we call a brivido,—­a shiver like an ague.

It was the body of an old man, with a face like yellow wax, and a singularly unpleasant expression even in death.  His emaciated hands were crossed on his breast, and held a small black crucifix.  The candles stood, one at the head and one at the foot, on little tables.  I entered the room and looked long at the dead old man.  I thought it strange that there should be no one to watch him, but I am not afraid of dead men after the first shudder is past.  It was a ghastly sight enough, however, and the candles shed a glaring yellowish light over it all.